I Can Make You Do Anything
by xsilicax
Summary: The battle for control. What really went on in Sam's head between he and Meg in Born Under a Bad Sign. Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** I Can Make You Do Anything

**Author:** XsilicaX aka Cathy.

**Category:** Missing Scene; Angst;

**Characters: **Sam; Meg; Dean gets a mention and maybe a later appearance.

**Words:** 1503

**Spoilers:** Born Under a Bad Sign. (If by some miracle you live in a country that has aired this even slower than mine, i.e. you haven't seen it yet, don't read this!)

**Warnings:** Language! Possible disturbing scenes to come.

**Disclaimer:** SO not mine! Enjoy, and review!

**I Can Make You Do Anything**

Sam could feel something stirring inside his head. It felt like a rustle. He could smell the treacle crawling behind his eyes. His mind was alight with pain, nerve endings tasting of pressure. He could see the wind rushing through his hair. He could hear feet dancing through his veins. It was vertigo on fire.

He opened his eyes.

No! Wait! He didn't open his eyes. That wasn't him. What the hell?

His head felt numb, coated with sticky cotton wool between every synapse. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The room swirled and blurred in and out of focus.

Oh. He was moving, sitting up; getting to his feet. But it wasn't him. He felt wasted, as though Dean was putting him to bed. Except that there was no one moving him. Except that there was.

He moved (was moved?) towards the mirror, stumbling a little. He could hear a muffled curse. It sounded like his voice. His lips had definitely moved, kinda like his feet were still doing. He tried to look down at them to see if this was some kind of weird, floating dream. He couldn't move.

His head lifted (was lifted?) up; he watched himself in the mirror. Raising (someone raised?) his hand forwards to touch his face. Was it still his hand if he couldn't control it? Was he still him? He could feel the stubble on his chin through fingers that were his but weren't. They felt cold against his skin. He felt the muscles contract in his cheek and saw his face take on a smile.

Okay, _that_ definitely was not him. He didn't smile like that. He looked like him though.

Sam spun around in a circle (or tried) but didn't move. He opened his mouth (didn't) and screamed (inside his head, plenty; outside? Not so much) for his brother. "Dean!" All he could hear was a roaring, muffled feeling.

The room lurched again, and he felt the vertigo hit him in his (his?) stomach, as he (he?) turned around. This was his motel room all right. His duffel was at the foot of the bed where he'd left it last night; Dean's was open on the other bed, rifled through. Dean must be doing laundry. The sun was half-risen. It was early, but not too early; it wasn't likely he was still asleep; but this could still be a dream.

The floor felt cold on his (his?) bare feet, as he walked (was walked, damnit!) towards his bag. He (this was so _not _him; he screamed to no effect) knelt down besides the bag, intending (he supposed, though really if he didn't know what was moving him, how the hell would he know what that _what_ was thinking?) to go through his stuff. He (this wasn't him, it wasn't!) cursed as he hit his (ow. It hurt; it must be his) head on the edge of the bunk.

He cursed. It sounded like his voice. He would have cursed; it hurt! But he hadn't misjudged his height like that since he was fourteen and had finally grown upwards instead of outwards.

He rubbed his head at the ache, grabbing his clothes with his other hand, and headed off to the bathroom, dumping the clothes and turning on the shower. He (the him inside his head, the _real_ one) blinked. Well okay, he didn't but he tried. None. Of. That. Was. Him.

What the _HELL_ was going on here!

"Oh Sammy, haven't you figured it out yet?"

What?

"Poor Sammy; so lost inside his own head."

Okaaaay. That wasn't his voice. It wasn't Dean's either, so he guessed his brother wasn't pranking him again. He was hearing voices? Man, he was screwed up!

"Aw, you'll work it out soon Sammy, it's not hard."

He felt the sickening sensation of someone patting him on the head in a patronising, _inside _his freaking head, way.

He screamed (to himself again, naturally) for Dean to appear with some kind of explanation. One that didn't involve hearing voices, insanity, or turning evil, all of which jumped straight to his (his? Oh yeah, that was definitely his) mind. How many other people had a list of fears that started like that. Talk about your fears coming true. No, wait! Don't think that or it might start happening, if by some chance it hadn't already begun. Whatever the hell this was, Sam knew he wanted out.

"Don't you understand yet Sam?" the voice pitied him. Could you pity yourself? "There is no way out. This is you, your body, just with a little guest along for the ride." His hand (_his_ hand, not hers damnit) swung out for emphasis.

His head echoed with laughter; it wasn't his. He was hearing somebody else's laughter inside his head. Her laughter. Her? He paused.

Okay, he could still do that. He could think silence. Maybe he still had control here.

Or not.

The laughter started up again.

"Okay, that is it!" he yelled, tried to yell, screamed, didn't, _whatever_.

"Who the hell are you? What do you want? And, oh yeah, GET. THE. HELL. OUT. OF. MY. HEAD!"

That would have felt so much better if he could have just waved his arms for emphasis.

"Sammy, I'm hurt! You really don't remember me? I thought I made such an impression on you."

Sam thought. Did he still have control over that? Or was he hallucinating a sense of self-awareness? "Jess?" he asked waveringly.

"That was a lame guess!" The voice sounded scornful. "I am no fawning schoolgirl sucking up to a wannabe lawyer; and I sure as shit didn't burn up in flames for you."

Sam winced; well he would have if he could. "Clue me in then, I've really reached my limit with this game."

The voice laughed. "I am your worst enemy, and best friend. I am in control. As far as everyone else is concerned I _am _you."

"You're not me!" he yelled. (Couldn't). This was getting really old, _real_ fast.

"I will be, one day. Or rather you will become like me."

"Who. Are. You?" He felt out of breath now, panting. As though the other voice was taking up all the oxygen in the room (his head?).

"Why Sam, you really know how to make a girl feel loved." He could hear (feel) her (him) smiling. "You'll know me as Meg."

Meg? "Meg?" Okay, possession. That was all right. It wasn't insanity; he wasn't turning evil. It sure wasn't pleasant, but he could live with possession.

"You can't have forgotten me already?" Whoops, way to piss off the nice demon in his head.

"I remember you. Thought we'd banished you. How was Hell?" He really needed to stop hanging around with Dean.

"You want to know so badly, I'll show you!"

He jerked to his knees (inside his head) as every hair on his body stood to attention at the pain that coursed through him. His (figurative) mouth was open in a soundless scream. If you scream where no one can hear you is it screaming? Or just mouthing? Either way, he _frigging hurt_.

He slumped to the ground (well, the soft spongy base of his brain because he wasn't moving his body) when Meg stopped squeezing his insides. Was he even moving when he did this, or was he imagining that to try to keep sane?

"That was rude." Meg sounded more amused than annoyed

Sam was incredulous. "So was taking me over without even knocking!"

"Oh Sammy, if you want to play that game, I don't think killing me was particularly nice either. Want me to do that to you?"

"Will it take you out too?"

Meg (he) laughed. "Sam, anyone would think you didn't like me!"

"I don't." How was she hearing him? How was he hearing her?

If Dean could only see him now. Arguing with a demon, inside his head, in a bathroom, in a stinking motel, where he couldn't even move a finger. Where the hell was Dean anyway?

"And that's why I'm in too much of a hurry to really enjoy myself, Sam," Meg said.

Sam blinked (didn't; God!). Mind reading. He'd have to be careful what he thought about. He looked around (or rather he saw what Meg wanted to see). Okay, when had he (Meg) got in the shower? When did the clothes come off? And what the hell was his hand doing _there_?

"What…"

"Oh Sammy, tell me you wouldn't be doing this if things were reversed?" Meg was so _not_ moving her (his hand). "If you were in me I bet your hand would be in much worse places."

"I wouldn't be possessing anybody!" he (didn't) yell.

"That's what you say now, but when you eventually do get around to it, remember what I said."

"It's not gonna happen, Meg. Dean won't let it. He's promised me." Sam said (thought) aloud.

"I guess we'll see, won't we." She (he) smiled.

And didn't that just bode ill.

**A/N:** Loved the episode, but there are so many scenes that should have been in there. There is no way that Meg would not take the opportunity to torture Sam while she could! If this in any way resembles anyone else's work, please remember that I still have 90 pages of S/N reading to do, which equates to over 2200 fics, and have to stop when I start to hit spoilers – I'm never going to reach the start!

I am in two minds whether to continue this or leave it there. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was not taking well to being a passenger in his own body.

After Meg had managed to drag herself (his body) away from the shower she'd spent some time parading him naked in front of the mirror; his hands on his hips. The floor was cold on his bare feet, and the air chilled his skin, causing goosebumps to rise.

"Aw, are you scared of me, Sammy?" Meg taunted. "I won't hurt you; I only want you for your body."

He ignored her, wishing that he could turn his head away; wishing that he could grab a towel; wishing that he could dress; wishing that he could look at the image in the mirror and see a difference; wishing that he could see her looking out of his eyes, and not him. Trying to move seemed to antagonise her, causing him headaches and leaving him feeling out of breath. It wasn't as though he could actually breathe for himself though. It must all be in his head.

"Well, it's not too bad Sammy," Meg had finished her analysis of him, finally. "Though your Jess must have been after something more than just your body, there's hardly enough here to satisfy you let alone anyone else."

Sam had never felt a bigger urge to pinch himself.

"Are we done yet? It's getting cold in here," he asked (thought).

"Really?" Meg didn't sound in the slightest bit concerned, "I can't feel it. That's the nicest thing about possession, Sammy; I can push all the discomfort onto you. I get a nice new suit without any aches and pain."

"It's Sam," he (tried to grind out through gritted teeth) thought. She (he) grinned inanely in the mirror whilst dressing, all the while keeping up a running commentary in _his_ head.

"You really need to get some new clothes Sammy, this shirt is falling to pieces; don't you know how to get those really tough blood stains out? Rubbing in lemon juice before you wash it makes such a big difference. And when was the last time you did laundry anyway, this smells?"

Sam fought very hard to bang his (his) head against the nearest wall. The pain would have been worth it. Unfortunately he just ended up with a headache without all the fun, as Meg grew tired of his struggles and sent a bolt of pain through his body.

"Meat suit Sam, behave, or I'll take my pound of flesh from you," Meg warned him as she walked him out of the bathroom, grabbing his bag and leaving the motel without even a glance behind.

Sam ached with the need to leave Dean some kind of sign; his fingers tingling as he tried to bend them to pick up a pen, knock something over, anything to get his brother's attention. He tried to open his mouth to yell hoping that Dean would be near enough to hear him, but the only thing that happened was his face broke into a smirk.

"_Meg!_" he cursed at her.

He (would have) recoiled as he felt the solid sensation of a slap connecting with his face, internally.

"Language Samuel," Meg scolded him. "I'm sure you wouldn't want me to have to wash your mouth out with soap, and I really don't think you're in a position to stop me."

He ignored her, visualising himself curled up in a corner of his head with his fingers in his ears, head bowed. Fighting with Meg _hurt_ and he was worn out.

"Ooh yay, I like this game!"

Sam found his little image hijacked.

"Now let's see, rope or chains?"

Sam didn't answer, still trying to ignore her.

"Neither appeal, huh? Okay, try this on for size."

He found himself in a cage, blood flowing up through fleshy bars in time to his body's heartbeat. He could feel his pulse throbbing through them. He couldn't move.

"How's that for realism, huh?" Meg smiled. "Try to get out and you'll only be hurting yourself. Talk about an allegory. Poor Sammy, caged in his own body; whatever will he do?"

Sam imagined a door. No door appeared.

"You're not very good at this game, Sam; my last guest could keep me entertained for hours."

Sam (tried to) raise his head and glare…at himself, "I believe that I'm the host here, and you gatecrashed." He tried imagining the key. When that failed he went for a lock pick.

Meg yawned; it echoed in his head, following through to reverberate in the pit of his stomach. He was really starting to feel unwell. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest; close his eyes for a few hours, but of course he wasn't in control.

"That's right Sammy, and you'd better remember it." He could feel her (his) face break into a smile.

Her (they were his; he could feel the papercut) fingers drummed impatiently upon the steering wheel as they crawled along the highway in the car she (he) had stolen.

She slammed his hand on the horn. Sam (almost) winced at the glares and raised fingers it elicited.

"Are you trying to draw attention to me?" he asked (thought). "Maybe you're not aware, but I'm wanted by the FBI."

"Oh Sammy, you have been a bad boy," Meg smirked at him through the rear view mirror, "Whatever _have_ you been getting up to? Just what would Jessica think if she could see you now?"

"Leave her out of this, Meg," Sam (tried) to growl out. "Jessica had nothing to do with any of this."

"Au contraire, my dear Samuel," Meg used Sam's thumb pick at his teeth while she waited for the traffic to start moving again. "My Daddy killed her because your Daddy broke the rules."

Sam refused to listen.

Of course that didn't (couldn't) stop Meg. "See, he was there that night; watching. Hoping to catch my Daddy at work. He knew what you were to us."

"And what's that?" Sam (would have) kicked himself for asking. He knew demons lied, but the temptation to understand what was supposed to happen to him was too strong to keep him silent.

Meg smirked; the expression looked horrible upon his face. Sam hoped she did that around Dean, he would know instantly that something was wrong. "Oh I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, Sam. Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

She leaned him forwards and turned up the volume on the stereo. "Don't you just love a good song, Sam?" He felt vertigo in his stomach as Meg threw his head back and began singing. It sounded horrible.

"I heard that!" He felt another of Meg's internal slaps hit him around the face.

"Well it does!" he (tried to) exclaim. "I'm a guy, Meg; my voice just does not work in soprano."

"Unless you want me to make you falsetto, I suggest you shut up and listen, Sammy," Meg threatened him.

Sensibly, Sam subsided.

The silence was interrupted by Sam's phone ringing in his pocket. He felt Meg dig his hands through his jeans until she found and extracted it.

"It's for you, Sam," she told him. She glanced at the caller ID and he saw that it was Dean. "Guess your brother's finally noticed you're missing. Only took him three hours."

She looked back at the road, and Sam felt sick. Just looking at his brother's name had filled him with hope. The phone kept ringing.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Meg asked him, grinning. "It's right there in your hand, Sammy, all you have to do is move your thumb."

He tried. Oh God did he try.

"C'mon, Sammy! You can do it."

His head felt as though it was engulfed in flames; he could see sparks whenever he tried to look at the phone. Pins and needles pulsated through every nerve ending as he struggled for control of one thumb.

"It's a tiny, tiny muscle, Sam; surely you can manage that?"

He felt as though he should be vibrating with effort, but his (his) body was relaxed against the seat, one hand on the wheel, free foot tapping away.

"Dean's going to be so worried if you don't answer that, Sam," Meg purred at him.

He was panting now (at least he felt like he was). He was intently focussed on the phone. He could feel it warm in his hand, where Meg loosely gripped it. His fingers felt as though they should be going white with pressure as he fought to move them, but they weren't.

He knew he was chewing through his bottom lip with the effort; but _his_ teeth were bared in a smile. He could feel his muscles starting to cramp; but _his_ muscles remained relaxed, holding the phone, swaying in time with the music. He could feel his thumb remain static, hovering over the call button.

Then it moved.

He (would have) cried out in pleasure. He'd done it! He pressed the button. But his thumb couldn't move.

"Had you there, didn't I?" Meg grinned, throwing his head back and laughing.

"_Bitch_!" Sam thrust at her with every ounce of energy he had left.

He blacked out at the agony as Meg squeezed him in retaliation.

The phone stopped ringing.

**A/N:** Thank you reviewers! I love reviews. So I have the best part of a week of Sam/Meg interaction before we even reach what happens in the episode. I have some ideas VEG but I would welcome suggestions! Hope you enjoyed. Cathy. X.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up felt wrong.

Sam's head was woolly and slow; he felt uneven. Distantly, he could hear the car engine rumbling. It sounded odd, but he couldn't think through the weird hum that echoed in his ears to pinpoint the difference. Dean had the stereo turned up loudly, he could feel the beat thumping in counterpart to his headache; the music didn't seem to fit.

His sense of balance was off; it felt like he was moving, but Sam knew he'd only just woken up. He stirred and tried to turn over and go back to sleep, reaching in vain for his jacket to bundle under his head where it rested against the passenger window. His arms seemed unable to respond; he must have slept on them. He tried harder, it felt as though he was moving through thick liquid; no matter how hard he tried to swim through it, he was pushed back down, below the surface.

He couldn't breathe.

Sam started to panic then, fighting to move his arms enough to break through to the surface. He could hear the music muffled through the water beckoning him up, but there was another song, louder, inside his head; a siren trying to suck him back down. He fought to open his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the blurred lights before he realised that his eyes were open; he was sitting up; behind the wheel no less; Dean wasn't there; and it wasn't the Impala.

"Evening, Sam. Feeling better?" The humming in his head stopped just as he finally recognised the song. "You've missed four phone calls now. Your brother must be _real_ worried about you. He's just got to get a message to you."

_Meg._ Sam (would have) groaned.

His head felt clearer without the singing, but no less achy. He wanted to rub his eyes something fierce, but couldn't so much as get a finger to twitch. He could feel grit building in the corner of his left eye, and both were watering; Meg obviously didn't appreciate the need to blink as often as he did.

"Is it irritating you, Sammy?"

Sam desperately wanted to reply. "You are," to her; but with the echoes of the pain she could inflict still spasming within him, he didn't dare anger her.

"Very wise, young Samuel."

Sam (tried to) stare out of the window, ignoring her. He was less likely to rise if he didn't listen.

Meg stuck out his bottom lip, trying on a pout. He caught a glimpse of it in the mirror as she glanced behind. It was such a girly expression and it looked totally out of place on him.

His face changed abruptly to irritation with a strong touch of anger glinting behind his eyes. Was that what he looked like when he and Dean rowed?

Sam froze. He shut up thinking, and (would have stopped) saying and doing anything. If he could have, he'd have held his breath. He could feel Meg's disapproval, crawling heavily inside his head. Thankfully she seemed content enough tasting his fear, and he suffered no further consequences.

After a period with no further reaction from the demon than a lick of his lips, Sam relaxed minutely. Can you relax if your muscles aren't really tense? Is it a state of mind or a state of body?

He tried (and failed) to glance around to see where they were. Meg was facing straight ahead, and he could see his hands on the wheel drumming to the music, the road crawling past, the oncoming headlights causing his eyes to water (guess Meg couldn't control involuntary reactions) and a whole lot of nothing else. Unable to look around him, he started to develop an intense feeling of paranoia, as though someone was sitting just behind him, watching his every move.

"That's just me, Sammy, don't mind little old me!"

He (would have) jumped. While it was undeniably true that that demon spawn currently residing in him was a heavy weight at the back of his head and there was a definite aura of menace emanating from it, Sam swore he could feel eyes staring intently at him. The tension was building in him, although his shortness of breath and hunched shoulders were not reflected in his _real_ body. He knew that someone was watching him, that either someone was sitting in the backseat with a hammer or that there was an axe-wielding maniac seated next to him. If he could just look…

No, wait _she_ was inside him; no one would be stupid enough to get in the car with Meg there.

"Knives are much more effective than axes, Sammy, don't you think someone would notice a guy with an axe in the backseat? Knives you can hide," Meg informed him. Of course, she had experience as a maniac.

His voice sharpened, slicing through his head like wind on an open wound. Meg didn't like that comparison. "They all see you, Sammy, not me. You can pass for mostly normal, on a good day."

She humoured him, however, by looking around. Maybe she was unsettled by his panic? More likely though she was sated by it.

Night had fallen while he'd been out. They were driving through some town; she never allowed him to see the name.

"Isn't more fun when you don't know where you're going?"

He didn't respond, careful to keep his mind absolutely blank. It was the only fight he could bring.

"Are you going to sulk now, Sammy?" Meg actually sounded a little put out. "Just because you weren't quick enough to answer the phone is no reason to take it out on me."

Not thinking. Not thinking.

"You're such a bore, Sammy," Meg (he) scowled. He could feel the frown lines deepening. "I swear I don't know how your brother can stand being with you sometimes."

_Not thinking. Not thinking._

"Hey I bet that's why your Daddy kicked you out," Meg taunted him. "You were just too dull to waste time and money on. And you didn't even want to hunt; he must have hated you."

Not listening. Not thinking. _Not. Not._ Especially don't think about that.

"Touched a nerve did I, Sammy? Oh I _am_ sorry!" Meg did not sound concerned. Sam didn't realise his voice could even sound that…cold.

"You know he's in Hell now, right? I saw him there. A lifetime of fun."

Still not thinking. Still not… 

"He's chained in a room of flames. No water, only molten rock to drink; he's not too partial to it, but we make him anyway.

Not fire. Dad's not stuck like that; God no, anything but that.

"Queues of his vanquished all ready to stone him with burning coals, or maybe force feed them to him, whatever takes their fancy. He likes to be distracted from it. We've had lots of conversations about you, Sammy. He told me all about _you_."

Don't listen. Don't… 

"He told me how you always argued, about everything. Honestly, Sam, you really cried because he'd bought pink toilet paper? '_It was on offer_!' he yelled at you. But ungrateful you just didn't get it."

_Don't listen. _He was six! _Don't listen._

"He wished it was you in that coma, not Dean. You know that, Sammy? He died hating you."

Sam's insides turned cold. He'd thought that; he'd feared that. And to hear it out loud in _his_ voice…No, demons lie, _don't…_

"He wouldn't have died for _you_, Sammy, he told me. He doesn't think you're worth it."

"_SHUT UP!_" Sam felt like he should be shaking with exhaustion, panting heavily, but _his_ body couldn't be more moulded to the driver's seat.

Meg glanced in the rear view, giving Sam no option other than to see his grinning face, when on _his_ face he would have sworn he could feel the warmth of shocked tears being blinked back.

Silence reigned for several miles, as the traffic picked up, and Meg put his foot down, content with the horror she'd set raging. Sam's cold fingers were drummed in time to the music; Meg couldn't seem to keep still in this body. It was wearing him out.

"Shh, Sammy," Meg warned him. "This is my first day back alive and I'm going to enjoy every last second of it. You wait until you've been trapped in Hell for an eternity and see how you spend your first day out. No piece of meat is gonna stop me from having fun."

He started counting under his breath; multiplying everything by two and then eight. It gave him something else to focus on that wasn't Meg. Her humming was driving him insane.

"No need to worry about that for much longer, Sammy, sane is overrated. You'll see." Meg started singing along to the music. "I'm just a puppet pulled by strings…"

He (was made to) squeal. It just sounded wrong. "It's your song! Want to duet?"

Sam (wanted to) shake his head. He could feel his heart labouring with every beat. He felt drained. He wanted Meg to shut the hell up. He just wanted to sleep.

Meg didn't let him.

-----

Meg drove through the entire night, Sam's tired eyes never wavering from the road. His fingers were beat in time to music the whole journey, his free foot tapped along. The muscles in both legs were threatening to cramp. Actually they had long since started, but Meg refused to acknowledge it with even a rub of the hand.

The car ride was becoming a blur of agony to Sam; his eyes were weighted with exhaustion. He was reduced to seeing lights speeding towards him, blinking for a half second of clarity, before they crossed again. If he had been driving his head would have nodded forwards by now, and the car would have crashed as he leant on the wheel in sleep. Meg didn't allow him to do that. She was in control, her damn tapping and humming ever-present.

His eyes were kept open, flicking from side to side as she observed everything around them. It was fun driving at night. There was hardly anybody else on the roads, just you the car and the open space. He pressed the pedal harder to the floor, exulting in the feel of the wind in his hair. He'd lowered the windows early on, and the cool air was sending tingles through his body where it brushed against his skin. It made him feel energised.

Sam's exhausted mind struggled to cope with the realisation that Meg's feelings were getting confused with his own. He (he) felt heavy. His body was feeling as though he'd started to run a marathon, made it half way around the course before collapsing in a heap with everybody pointing and laughing at him, or worse, pitying him. He (Meg) was burning with energy and life. Life she'd stolen from him.

"Oh stop your whining, Sam," the voice in his head said. "Can't you taste the power in the night? All those people lying in their beds, safely wrapped up under covers, not afraid of the dark because of all the lights outside. Ever wondered what happens when those lights go out?"

Sam _knew_. What did she think he and Dean did?

"I meant from our side, Sam. That smell of fear humans get when they wake up to scratches, and blood, and faces in the window. You'll love it!"

He wished that he could block his ears, shut out the sound of _her_. He'd tried singing in his head, but all that happened was _she_ joined in. He wanted unbearably to close his eyes, and sleep; anything to get rid of the voice and the thoughts. He wished he could answer his cell, which kept shrilling at intervals throughout the night. He wished that he didn't feel Meg's thrill of excitement as she talked about hurting things. He was so tired though that even if he could have moved (which he couldn't) he didn't think he'd be able to lift up a finger, let alone an arm.

Sam was freezing. The air blasting through the windows was chilling him, and Meg had only dressed him in a tee and jeans; apparently everything else smelled. She even had him driving barefooted.

"You can feel the engine better this way," she interrupted. "Feel the power under your foot, throbbing, contained. What damage I could do if I just pressed a little harder, maybe turned the wheel like this…"

Sam felt his hands tensing as they prepared to move. "No!"

"Ah so you are still awake in there," His hands eased off the wheel. "Just checking you hadn't dropped off. It's not as though there's any one else to hit around here anyway." She sounded upset with that.

Sam concentrated on (trying to) regulate his breathing – which actually wasn't irregular at all. He wanted to rest his head in his hands, wanted to shake in relief.

"Oh I see," His voice sounded amused. "First time driving since the accident, huh? Didn't mean to scare you." Meg drew out the sound in 'scare', teasing him.

_It wasn't an accident._ "It wasn't an accident!"

"You meant to kill your Daddy? Sam, you're further along than I thought you were, well done, hon!"

He wanted to defend himself, but he didn't have the energy, and there was a small part of him (not the Meg part) that was terrified of what she meant. It was no use arguing, Meg could twist around anything he thought, and she was using it to torture him. He was safer just not thinking.

"Good luck with that!"

Sam retreated within himself.

He felt cold. It was a peculiar feeling. He felt like he should be shivering; he felt like he was shivering; but he wasn't moving, wasn't generating any heat. The hairs on his arms were rigid with tension. His muscles felt tight with cold and exhaustion; his head was thick with tiredness and _possession_ and his stomach was empty.

Meg swung his head up at that, glancing at him in the rear view again. It was a disturbing feeling to see yourself looking back at you knowing that it _wasn't_ you. Sam found himself studying his face looking for any sign that he wasn't himself, however Meg withdrew his gaze and placed it back on the road before he was done.

"Food, Sammy," she absorbed his last thought. "That could be fun; it's been a while since I could eat solid food. Of course that's your fault so maybe you don't deserve to have any."

Sam said nothing. Not that he could have even if he'd have wanted to.

"Oh don't be like that, Sammy. Stop taking things so personally. Look at it like this, I'm only borrowing you."

"It's stealing!" He mentally cursed himself. Why couldn't he just shut up? Why did he have to rise each time?

"You always have to have the last word, Sam. You've this burning need to be heard. It's getting tiring."

You're getting tiring. _Don't think that!_

Fortunately Meg just laughed. "How about we make a deal? You shut up for two hours, and I mean no thinking, no thinking about doing, no doing, and no speaking; definitely no speaking. And I'll stop for food soon."

It sounded like a good deal. It wasn't as though he could do or say anything anyway.

"Trust me, Sam, you're making one hell of a lot of noise back there, I swear you're giving yourself a headache. Now have we got a deal? I fancy a good fry up."

Sam (wanted to) groan. "Why couldn't you take over Dean? He'd love that."

A warning twinge shot through his chest, leaving him (feeling like he was, but not actually) gasping for breath.

"Your brother is not my idea of fun." His voice sounded dry. He needed water. Now that he'd thought about it, he was consumed by a terrible thirst, which Meg, naturally, ignored.

"He'd fight all the time, Sammy. He's not like you, you're malleable." Sam (tried to) gather himself, uncomfortable with what she was implying.

"He'd never give in, not for a second. He's just like your father. Dean would have answered the phone; hell, I'd never have made it out of the motel room in _him_."

Meg paused her diatribe to be sure that Sam felt her words cut into him. "You're too weak."

What sucked the worst about that? Sam was thinking exactly the same thing.

"So, Deal? Or no Deal?"

**A/N:** We'll finally get off the road in the next chapter; some good stuff hopefully coming up. Ever wondered how to perform an exorcism from within? Oh, and that thing with the toilet roll? Apparently I just would not do yellow. It still has to be dirt-cheap…


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Warning:**

**Meg gets very…physical…with Sam's body in this chapter. I've tried to skirt in under the rating, and think I've managed it, but if anyone disagrees please let me know and I'll raise it. There is nudity.**

**Enjoy is probably the wrong word, but…enjoy (and review).**

**Cathy.**

* * *

"Mmm, this is good, Sam." Meg said, taking another bite of the meal.

It was good. Sam hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, and even though it wasn't quite as satisfying knowing that someone else was chewing the food for him, it did taste good. The first time.

Sam was starting to feel queasy. Meg had gone into an all you can eat restaurant, they'd been in there for three hours, and she was showing no sign of stopping. She'd ordered at least one of everything on the menu, including food with nuts, despite – or probably because- he'd hoped she wouldn't. He hated nuts.

Meg was taking great pleasure in picking them out and making him bite into them whole. With nothing else to take the taste away.

The staff were staring at him in various poses of awe and horror. He wanted to hide under the table from their gaze – well he really wanted to get up and walk out, but there was slightly more chance he could force Meg (himself) to drop something and use that as an excuse to crawl beneath the table. There didn't seem to be all that many customers in here and it was quite probable that the staff spent much of their day watching TV. With all the staring someone was going to recognize him and call in the cops.

Sam was trying to quell the temptation to choke, as he felt a chunk of food passing down his throat. Meg hadn't chewed it quite enough and there were some sharp edges digging in. It was a horrible sensation feeling the food passing through your throat, when you had no control over it. If he choked, he would be unable to drink anything to help wash it down. If he inhaled any he doubted Meg would let him cough to breathe. He was picturing this lump of food passing down his neck, sticking out as Meg swallowed.

"This is really good, I've missed food." Meg made him take another mouthful – peanut satay. He wanted to swallow as quickly as he could, hating the taste, but Meg savoured it.

Her next bite burned the roof of his mouth, and she pressed his tongue up against the food, holding it there prolonging the pain.

"Just wanted to give you a taste of what your Daddy is eating."

Sam held himself back from responding. He was fighting exhaustion, and the comfortable tiredness of a full stomach was not helping clear his head. He was not up to another battle of wits with Meg.

"I've won them all so far, Sam," Meg commented. She took yet another bite. Sorbet this time – at least it was something sweet for a change. Of course Meg knew the worst way to eat it, and the cold shot through his teeth straight up to his head, exacerbating his headache.

He could feel his belt starting to dig into his stomach from all the food. It was an iron band pressing against him. He knew the skin was reddening under the pressure; though Meg did not look down to allow him to see. He wanted to release it a notch, but immediately halted the thought. The last time his mind had wandered that way, Meg had heard, and tightened it in.

Meg was drinking as well as eating, and not only did he need to burp something chronic - anything to relieve some of the pressure within - he also needed to go.

He wanted to squirm in the chair. He could feel the burn pressing heavily against the top of his leg. He wanted to dance his feet, but Meg carried on sitting. He caught himself humming in his head; it was the only thing he could do to distract himself from his growing need.

Eventually he knew his bladder would release involuntarily. He was deeply worried that Meg would keep him sitting here until it happened, making even more of a scene. Knowing her she would make him sit in the same clothes for the rest of the day.

"I'm not a heathen, Samuel," she answered, chewing around a smile. Does the rule about talking with your mouth full count if you can only hear the voice in your head? "I do share your sense of smell, you know. I have no intention of leaving you in torment for too long. Just be patient!"

Sam was concentrating all his thoughts on attempting to stand up. He could feel Meg stirring restlessly in his head, so he was obviously having some influence, no matter how small.

"It's irritating, Sammy." That answered that. "If I stand up I doubt they'll let me back down, and there are still four dishes I haven't tried yet. Just be _patient_ Sam." He felt like a scolded child.

Unable to jiggle, squirm, move or put off the need in any way, Sam was reduced to chanting in his head. "Hold it, hold it, hold it…"

"Sam, you're spoiling my enjoyment of this steak," Meg swallowed a large chunk, which Sam could feel at every stage passing down him. "I'll admit it's a little overdone for my tastes, but it's nice to be eating flesh again."

Sam found himself now having to quell nausea as well. The piece of meat she was on about was so rare it was practically raw. It sat on the plate soaked in its own juices; bloody and staring back at him. He'd never liked raw meat; too many times he'd had to help patch up his father or Dean – even himself - to ever look at bloody meat, especially not to eat it.

"Are you done yet, are you done yet, are you done yet…" He felt like banging his head on the table.

"Sam, shut up!"

His dizziness and nausea increased as he felt a vicious cuff catch him on the top of his head (inside his head) and he felt rattled all the way through.

As punishment Meg seemed to make her last three meals take as long as the first nine. The staff had all crept nearer, this one kid gawking in absolute amazement. Sam was starting to feel a little threatened, which was obviously the intention. They wanted him gone. Meg of course felt none of it.

"I'm holding a steak knife, Sam. I could rip out their throats in five seconds. And you know it."

Sam did know it. While Meg had been able to tell what he was thinking and feeling, a little of what she knew had also crossed over. Her memories were filled with fire and pain and were soaked with blood. The smell of the steak was only bringing them nearer the surface.

They filled his head until he wanted to scream.

Sam felt himself pushing the chair back from the table and rising to his feet. Meg was finally done. His stomach cramped a little at the change in position, and his legs felt shaky.

"First you were complaining because you were hungry, and now because you're too full? Be a good little meat suit and shh." Meg was in a pleasant mood – for her – obviously she'd needed food too.

The room was lurching as Sam (felt like he) waddled across the room towards the toilets. The nausea was coming on really strong now – too much food, too many varieties, and the dizziness that accompanied his movements were adding together. He wanted to swallow to try to keep the rising moisture in his mouth down. He could only imagine what it would feel like if he vomited with Meg in control. She would probably clamp his mouth shut and make him swallow it.

"Damn right, Sammy. I'm not wasting all that food. You spew it, you chew it."

Sam was concentrating so hard on not hurling that he almost didn't notice as Meg headed straight for the ladies.

"Stop!"

Meg sounded grumpy; her mild mood was fading fast. "What is it _now_, Sammy? I thought you were desperate to go."

Sam wanted to shut his eyes. Meg had carried on walking, and they were in the ladies, and there was screaming. And pointing. And giggling. He wasn't sure which of the three was the worst.

Meg was chuckling inside his head; it felt like his whole body was rocking with the laughter. He was so absolutely going to hurl.

"Get out." At least one of the women had kept her head.

Sam wanted to turn and leave, but Meg was reluctant. "I'm sorry ladies," his voice did _not_ sound like that. It sounded as though he was trying to seduce them. "I guess I misread the sign. Forgive me?" Meg made him sound such a pervert.

"Get out!" Giggler had managed to swallow them, and joined in the outrage. One of the ladies was still eyeing him up though. Sam wanted to shudder – he wasn't a piece of meat to be stared at.

Despite the apology, Meg was not making any move, except for forwards. Sam could feel his head lower and then rise as Meg raked his gaze up and down their bodies.

"Creep! I'll report you." He was cheering them on.

He couldn't help thinking, however, that Dean would have enjoyed this invasion into secret woman-land. "Meg, let's go!"

"You're so grumpy today, Sammy. Whatever is the matter with you?" Meg was thinking hard at him and it sharpened the ache in his head.

Sam held himself in. He wanted to hurl, he needed to go, and he needed to scream at the bitch in his body. But he'd been trained now. He knew what would happen, and he was tired.

He felt himself being patted on the head – inside - "You're a good boy really, Sammy. I'll reward you later."

That accounted for the sudden speeding up of his heart and abrupt increase of nausea.

Meg had finally left the ladies after a shoe had been thrown at his head. She hadn't even tried to evade it, though the look she'd shot them afterwards had caused the giggler to shrink back. Sam had caught a glimpse of it in the mirror, and even he had been thrown by how menacing he looked.

The sudden easing of pressure he felt as Meg undo his belt (almost) had him crying in relief.

He felt like crying for another reason when Meg unzipped his pants. He could feel a sense of anticipation, which did not originate from him. His hand was caressing more than holding, and his touch felt wrong. It wasn't his for a start; not really.

"Well what do you want me to do?" Meg was far too amused by the situation for anything good to come of it. "I have to hold it or you're going to make a mess. Which is it to be, Sammy?"

He wanted to turn his head away and stare into the mirror. He wanted to focus on anything else. He was humming in his head. He stood there, looking an idiot, Meg taking her time enjoying his torment.

A guy came to stand next to him, business as usual in this place. To his horror he felt Meg turn his head to stare at the guy, and then his gaze rolled down as he unbuttoned himself. Meg had him doing the unthinkable. And this guy wasn't smaller than him. In any sense of the word.

"Oh Sammy, doesn't he just make you feel inadequate?"

He could feel his hand moving now, and his gaze was switched from the other man's _thing_ – Sam didn't dare name it even in his head in case it drew the other guy's attention – to his own.

He could feel a warming in the pit of his stomach, and he knew what was coming. Think of something _else_! It didn't work; he could feel himself rising.

"Oh Sammy, it's been far too long for you hasn't it if just your hand can do this to you. Has there been anyone since Jessica?" She knew there hadn't been. Meg had ripped through his memories as thought they were some slide show for her amusement.

Sam willed his erection down. Think of something _else_. Cold thoughts. Think of the bitch in his body – that'd be enough to kill anything.

He was helped – if that was the right word – by the guy next to him zipping up, washing his hands and then slamming Sam into the wall.

He could feel the man's arm digging into the back of his neck. The wall felt cold against his face, which was pulled away and then slammed back into it again. Meg was not allowing him to move, let alone fight back. His arms were flopping like a rag doll's.

He could feel the man leaning against him, his breath warm against the back of his neck.

"Mmm, sexy."

For a moment Sam was paralysed with terror, thinking the voice came from the guy. But it was just Meg commenting. He was paralysed for another reason.

"Pervert! I'll teach you to stare at me." That was the guy this time. Sam was shaken again, Meg still doing nothing in response. She was enjoying it.

His face was bashed into the wall once more, before he was spun around to stare the guy in the face. He was in for a beating if Meg didn't let him fight back, judging from the expression on the guy's face.

The spinning didn't help his nausea any. However the punch to the stomach was the clincher, and not even Meg could hold it in. He bucked involuntarily and was shoved back against the wall where Meg lost his balance and fell back against it, slipping down to hit the floor. He landed on his knees and it hurt.

The guy had a look of fury on his face, as well as vomit on his shoe, and there was murder in his eyes. If Sam thought he'd been in trouble before… Fortunately for Sam one of the male staff came in then, alerted by the sounds of a struggle. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, but the guy in front of Sam didn't want any trouble, and contented himself with spitting in his direction.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"Fine," Meg spat out. "Go away now?"

The kid left. With the tone that Meg managed to get out, who wouldn't?

Sam felt himself stoked with adrenaline, his heart racing. Meg wasn't letting him do anything with it, she was just adding to it. He felt like he should be panting for breath.

"Sammy, that was great! Was that your first fight? Don't you just feel so alive? Want to get him back?"

To his shame, he could feel a flush of pleasure rising within him. He couldn't tell now whether it was his or Meg's. He blanked his mind.

She picked him up off the floor, dusting him down before washing his hands, cocking an eye at him in the mirror. "This floor is filthy, Sammy, I'm not touching you with these hands, and you still need to go, right?"

The battle started again. Ignoring didn't work this time – the need was too great.

Meg was pointing him, stroking him, and she wasn't letting him _go_!"

He found himself pushing, straining as much as he could, and was rewarded by a trickling sound. Meg's thrill evaporated and he could feel himself tensing up. His body was reacting as well, not just him (him).

"How did you do that?" Meg demanded.

Sam couldn't answer; he honestly didn't know. He hadn't done anything different from when he was trying to answer the phone, or stand up, or any other thing he'd attempted to do in the last day.

"HOW DID YOU DO THAT"

His head thundered with the sound of Meg's voice, and he could feel the sensation of fingers digging into his brain, prodding.

He was glad he'd been able to go because he'd probably have pissed himself from the pain.

"Involuntary, of course," Meg muttered to herself.

Sam's thrill of achievement dulled. He felt like sagging as the adrenaline and fading hope left him even more shattered than he'd been before. For a moment he had actually thought he'd beaten her. He felt empty and could still taste the vomit in his mouth.

"Punishment," Meg obviously didn't intend to wash the flavour out. He didn't ask what he was being punished for.

"Come on." Meg dragged him out of the bathroom and diner, to frankly relieved gazes from the staff. "What shall we do today, Sammy?"

Meg reached into his pocket and counted out what little cash he had. "Well there's not much here to have fun with. I guess I'll just have to look, not buy."

Shopping. Sam wanted to groan. He was already knackered. A day of shopping would kill him.

"Don't be so melodramatic; it'll be fun."

Awareness faded a little, and he found himself walking dully in and out of shops without really paying attention to what they sold, or even where they were. He could have sworn he'd been in some of these three or even four times. His feet hurt. Surely Meg couldn't spend that long doing this, it wasn't like he had any money to spend anyway.

-----------

Sam was exhausted. He'd been on the go for nearly two days. They hadn't been restful and it didn't look like this day was going to end for him any time soon.

Meg had started to dress him in shirt and smart pants. They looked new; he'd certainly not seen them before. Meg was modelling them in the mirror. Sam wasn't really sure why, she'd spent nearly an hour just matching them with a shirt, and now she was undecided if they went together? He thought they seemed to suit him quite well.

"All your old stuff stank, and it was...well old, and outdated," Meg twirled him around. He could feel bile rising from the vertigo. He wished she'd warn him before she did things like that. "Really Sammy, you'd think it was you who'd been stuck down in Hell, not me. Your clothes are so passé."

Sam didn't feel like humouring her, so he ignored her, concentrating on the feel of the cotton, soft against his skin. He was enjoying the new clothes' smell – it wasn't as though he'd had all that many opportunities to experience it.

"Stick with me and see the world, Sammy!" He was pretty sure he'd already seen the parts of it she frequented.

She'd even bought him new shoes.

"How did you afford all this, Meg? I didn't have enough cash on me for this!" Sam was worried that shoplifting was going to be added to his résumé of misdeeds.

He felt his face form a grin, and his hand tapped his nose. "A girl's got to have some secrets, Sammy. Now come on, show me how to use this razor."

Sam balked. He did _not_ want Meg getting anywhere near his throat with a sharp implement. Of course it had no effect on Meg.

"Oh come on, Sammy, how are you going to pull anyone if you look like something the cat dragged in?"

"You're no cat; wrong species." He recoiled instantly, knowing that he shouldn't have said anything. It made no difference, however, when you were trapped. Meg could get him anywhere.

He felt an internal slap ringing against his face. He wanted to sigh; as if he hadn't already been beaten up enough for one day. His stomach was still throbbing, and he knew it would bruise.

"It doesn't matter how subtle you think you're being, Sammy, you forget I know what you're thinking. That hurt me."

He was pissed off and couldn't hold back. "That hurt me!"

Meg didn't react, and his mind slowly turned over what she had said, wondering why. He watched his face take on a look of glee in the mirror as Meg watched, listened, whatever, to the dawning of his eventual understanding.

"Finally! Took you long enough." She wasn't a patient demon.

"No Meg," Sam wanted to shake his head. "Don't do that to me. Not that."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Meg was shaking his head along with the words, and the razor was dangerously near his throat. "I told you it's been too long. You're so tense all the time. I'm just trying to help you relax."

"Don't you think being _invaded_ might have a little to do with that?" It came out a fraction too bitter, and he (tried to) recoil away in anticipation.

For once she didn't react. "Oh but Sammy, I'm doing you so much good." In what _way_? "No, you need to get out more, I know your brother's been saying the same thing to you."

Sam cursed his memory. Why did she have to invade everything?

"Because you have so much scope for torture in there, you're your own worst enemy. We're going! And unless you want me to shave your legs as well, I suggest you shut up and let me concentrate."

Meg gently rubbed the blade against his arms, and he could feel his hairs standing on end in reaction. "I wouldn't want to cut you up any, you have such pretty skin."

Sam wanted to shudder. He could feel the blade in his hands, but he'd never thought of it as a weapon before.

Meg did a pretty reasonable job for her first time shaving a face; she'd managed not to draw blood. "Well, I do have some experience wielding a knife; though it's certainly the first time I've tried _not_ to cut anything."

Sam tried not to think about that.

She didn't use any aftershave though, and he felt his face burning as Meg walked him out of the motel room and drove into town. The sensation didn't subside much when he entered the smoke-filled club, nor did it help with the comments that Meg was making about some of the girls.

She was far worse than Dean ever got.

"Well excuse me, Sammy. It's not like I get to see things with a guy's hormones that often. There are some firsts for me too, you know?" Sam was getting fed up with that phrase. If he knew did she think he'd be wondering?

Somehow Sam's wallet had filled up with cash. He didn't want to wonder where it had come from, so was trying to ignore it. It was hard; not only was she flashing it every time she bought him drinks, but she was plying several young girls with booze as well.

The music was loud, modern and he hated it. It probably had a lot to do with the pounding in his head, and Meg singing along, but he was not enjoying himself. He preferred to sit down at a quiet bar; he did not like dancing, especially not with strangers.

Meg had no such qualms, and she made him appear the life and soul of the party. There couldn't be a girl in here that she hadn't made him dance with. If he'd thought his feet hurt before…The smoke was in his eyes and his throat, and he could smell beer where one of the girl's significant others had objected to Meg's friendly approach.

The alcohol she was making him down, the remarks she was making, and where she was staring, were all causing him to respond physically. He couldn't will it away – not with Meg actively encouraging him to get some.

His heart rate had increased tenfold as Meg had initially stared at the guys. He'd already had one encounter he didn't want repeated. Meg needed to control…him…better.

"Oh Sammy, do you know how wonderful it is to feel a guy in you? Thrusting yourself down…"

Sam tuned her out. He'd finally learned that by singing really loudly to himself he could drown her out at least for a little while. She didn't like to be ignored, and it soon hurt. But it was worth it for that little piece of quiet.

Meg forced his attention back. "I want to try something new though, Sammy, I've never been inside anyone else before."

He wanted to ask her what she thought she was doing now, but his breath (would have) caught as she just walked up to a blonde by the bar and asked her to dance.

She said yes.

From behind, she'd looked like Jess. He knew Meg had picked her on purpose.

"Shh, Sammy, I'm concentrating." His head shook internally as he was silenced and spun round, dancing.

His stomach had been emptied earlier, and the copious amounts of alcohol Meg had forced him to drink were having an effect. He was drifting in an out of focus. No wait, that was the world. His head spun.

Somehow, Meg had convinced the girl – Sam hadn't even caught her name – to invite him home. What the hell?

"I know, Sammy, some people are just a sucker for a pretty face. We'll make such a great team with your looks and my experience."

"Shut up!" Sam started humming again. He found himself unconsciously looking to Dean for help as he was humming Metallica. It wasn't calming him.

"I do have to admit though, she is such a typical blonde. I mean inviting the guy to her house on a first date? She should never have left with you."

Naturally Meg didn't tell the girl that, and he couldn't, though it wasn't for lack of trying.

Then they were in the house, the girl locking the door behind her, turning and practically throwing herself on Sam. She felt young, and warm, and Sam couldn't help but respond, no matter how hard he willed it away. He didn't want this.

He was tugged over to the bedroom.

Sam's hands felt clumsy, as though they should be shaking, when Meg unbuttoned the girls blouse, caressing her shoulder, and slipping down under her bra strap before flicking it undone with one hand.

"How did you learn that?" Sam's thoughts were echoed by the girl's, spoken aloud. It was the only thing he recalled her saying.

Meg responded by thrusting his lips upon her parted ones. They felt warm and soft, and she kissed him back, moving her lips up the side of his face, her hands in his hair pulling him down.

His hands were cupping her breasts, and he could feel his temperature rising as his clothes were stripped from him. Against his will his breath started to quicken.

Then they were on the bed, mattress sagging beneath the weight. Their bodies were beginning to slick up as they kissed and pressed against each other. He could smell the shampoo and smoke in her hair, which curled down onto his chest. Blonde curls, so like Jess' but not them.

His hands were…Meg's hands were scooting lower, nestling in her hair. Sam's breath caught, and he could feel his muscles tensing. No amount of singing in his head could prevent him watching and feeling this. Even the alcohol was starting to wear off. Meg wanted him to _know_.

It was wrong. He wasn't ready. The last time he had been this close with someone it had been Jess. She'd been his first, and his last, and he wasn't ready for this; not even close.

There was a part of him that felt excited by it; it felt right. It was the Meg part. It had to be.

"I told you you needed it." Sam actually welcomed hearing her voice just then. It reminded him that this wasn't him; that he wasn't in control. It might be his hands that could feel the warm smoothness of the girl's skin. It may be his eyes that were staring into her blue ones. It may be his nose that was breathing in the scent of sweat and pleasure but it wasn't his choice. It wasn't him. Not really.

He kept telling himself that as his body released, and the two of them climaxed together. It didn't help.

The girl was crying with pleasure. She'd obviously enjoyed it. Meg certainly knew what pleased a woman. He couldn't even feel happy for her.

He felt like crying too. He was hot, he was cold, the sweat was drying on his skin, he couldn't get the smell out of her his nose. She wasn't Jess. Everything felt wrong. He'd been violated. He hadn't been ready; he was still grieving.

"Oh shut your whiney ass, Sammy. You had fun. Your body certainly seemed to enjoy it."

Sam couldn't respond. He couldn't even think beyond a whimper. His mind felt like it had just ripped apart.

He couldn't process it when Meg pulled out a steak knife; how had he missed her picking it up from the diner? Too much had happened to him, in too short a time. He was numb.

He barely even noticed Meg slash it deeply across the girl's throat. It wasn't until the blood started to pump over his hands and bare chest that he heard her choking.

He was forced to watch as the light in her eyes died.


End file.
